Children of Time, Ep 7: Stolen
by Wholmes Productions
Summary: Something is rotten on a 25th century space station – and when Holmes is framed for murder, the two Doctors must solve the case to save the Great Detective from a horrific fate... Standalone/sequel to "Child of Time".
1. Mouth of the Dragon

**==Chapter One: Mouth of the Dragon==**

"_The only thing we require to be good philosophers is the faculty of wonder."_

— Jostein Gaarder, Sophie's World

Watson eyed the Doctor with avid curiosity while the TARDIS shuddered and lurched through the Vortex. Their host still hadn't said a word about their destination this time – it was a great relief to his human colleague to see that the old impish gleam had returned to the Time Lord's eye. The week they'd spent on that resort world had plainly been time well spent, the Doctor gradually recovering enough from the distress of relinquishing his humanity that he was even able to sleep again, albeit only for short stretches.

The Doctor smiled enigmatically as they landed, nodding at the door. "Wanna have a look-see?"

Watson tsked, grinning. "Doctor, when have we ever said 'no'?" He and Holmes headed down the ramp, opened the door... and the doctor's mouth fell open, speechless.

They'd landed in an open space which looked rather like a twenty-first century airport lounge, even containing the same type of furniture – but what had Watson spellbound was the view beyond the transparent dome that enclosed it. He'd never seen such a stunning starscape: countless points of blue light, shining through elegantly sculpted clouds of dust, amber, gold and scarlet... In a daze, he drifted forward, only halted by the dome itself, resting his hands against the glass as he continued to drink in the wondrous sight.

Dimly, he heard Holmes murmur behind him, sounding almost as awestruck: "Where are we, Doctor?"

"Polaris Seven, a waystation on the Dragon Nebula." The Doctor's smile was plainly audible. "Welcome to the twenty-fifth century."

Watson blinked, and found his eyes had grown moist. "It's... incredible..." he breathed.

Next moment, the mood was shattered as a peevish, bureaucratic voice blared through the dome: "_Attention, all visitors. Will the owner of a Cascade-model Altraxian cruiser please report to Docking Bay Three? Your parking permit is due to expire in half a cycle, at which time your ship will be impounded. Thank you._"

The Doctor laughed. "Ah, docking control. Well, boys, most times you've seen other species, you've been running from them, more or less." He raised an inviting eyebrow. "How'd you like to mingle, this time?"

Holmes and Watson shared a grin of pure delight, Watson nodding eagerly. "Lead on, Doctor!"

The three piled into the nearest lift, where a flat, electronic-sounding voice intoned, "Please state the desired level."

The Doctor raised both eyebrows at his Companions. "Well, go on, choose. There are two dozen levels – small, but not at all bad for this point in time."

Holmes looked inquiringly at Watson, who shrugged. The detective considered for a moment before asking, "Computer, what is the main communal area on this station?"

"The primary centre of social activity is the Level Twelve marketplace."

Holmes nodded. "Level Twelve, then."

"Lift descending."

Watson looked curiously at the Doctor as they started downwards. "Doctor, have we missed something?" Normally on a trip like this, the Time Lord would be talking away nineteen to the dozen, yet he'd barely said a word since they arrived.

"Oh, didn't I tell you? I'm just the intergalactic nanny on this trip, and you two..." The Doctor gestured expansively, grinning. "Don't argue with it – I've got a millennium's worth of seniority on you. The two of you will explore, and I will simply make sure that neither of you get killed. Sound like a plan?"

Holmes looked most intrigued. "Dare I ask how likely that is to happen here?"

The Doctor shrugged. "Well, not _very_ – at least, as long as we don't go down into the lower levels. Think like the levels on an ocean liner: top is best, bottom is worst, and everything else falls somewhere in-between."

Watson made a resigned face as the lift slowed to a halt. "Some things really never change, do they?"

"Level Twelve."

The doors opened onto an elevated walkway, which overlooked a bustling indoor bazaar, full of assorted booths and stalls; the spaces between the booths were crowded with dozens... no, _hundreds_ of alien races, all going about their own business. The noise was only a deafening hubbub at first, but Watson eventually began to distinguish individual voices, each seemingly speaking in strangely accented English, punctuated by the occasional odd sound that the doctor supposed even the TARDIS couldn't translate directly.

The two humans just stood there for half a minute, gazing in awe at all the exotic figures below, until a tall, fish-headed humanoid with purple and orange skin walked up to the lift, obviously wanting to get in. The creature had a glass tube full of green fluid attached to its mouth – some kind of breathing apparatus?

Watson and Holmes hastily exited the lift, Holmes nodding politely as the alien brushed past. "Pardon us." Watson wondered mightily how those words had sounded in the fish man's language...

The Doctor sidled up up next to them, murmuring wryly, "This is where the TARDIS's translation is going to be _very_ handy..." He looked around, hands in his pockets. "Sooo, what do you think? By this point in history, mankind has been interacting on pretty equal footing with other races for well over a century, and Polaris Seven is the seventh major interspecies station to include humans as a matter of course."

Holmes pricked up his ears. "And before that? Doctor, do you mean to say it has taken another _four centuries_ since the Manhattan Project for humanity to become equitable enough to be accepted by other races?" He shook his head in disgust.

Watson's breath caught as he spotted a familiar face in the crowd. "Speak of the devil... Holmes, Doctor, look there!" He pointed excitedly at one of the stalls to the far right, where a smartly-dressed Manhatian was standing behind a counter crowded with wares. "They _did_ survive..." Thank God...

The Doctor had been about to answer Holmes when Watson cut him off; his annoyed expression rapidly faded as he turned to look, mouth falling open. "That's... that's _wonderful_..." The Time Lord's eyes were glistening, although Watson was hardly about to comment; clearly, Sec's sacrifice and Kit's pain had not been in vain, after all.

Holmes craned his neck. "I can't tell what he's selling from here, what are those?"

Watson grinned – this trip was just getting better and better. "Well, let's go and find out!"

* * *

The Doctor strode towards the stall with a definite spring in his step. For all the rescuing he'd done throughout his TARDIS-only-knew-how-many centuries of life, he'd rarely seen positive results like this. He grinned as he got closer: the stall was crowded with black, palm-sized discs projecting holographic reproductions of artworks. Most were alien, but a few were human, such as 3D images of van Gogh's _Sunflowers_ and the _Venus de Milo_.

"Oh, that's lovely. I love a good holographic reproduction." He looked up from the art to study the Manhatian behind it. The hybrid possessed a recognisably Dalek head without being as overwhelmingly Dalek as Sec had been, none of the disturbing tentacles and far less of the nerve-mass apparent... A human-Gallifreyan-Dalek hybrid selling _art_ in a bazaar—the Doctor stopped short in awe at the thought. He could have whooped, punched the air, and leapt for sheer joy.

The hybrid bowed as they approached the counter, smiling. "Greetings, humans! How may I help you?"

Watson smiled back. "You have an impressive collection, sir." He gestured at one of the deactivated discs. "Did you make these?"

"The projectors? Yes, I have something of a gift for holotech." The Manhatian proudly waved a hand at the display. "Do you see anything you like?"

The Doctor could feel his fanboying smile creep over his face. "Oh, I like it all, but that's just me!" He carefully picked up the holoprojector bearing _Sunflowers_ and inspected both the projector and the image. "Ohhh, that is lovely." The level of engineering in the disc was impressive for the race having started out four centuries back with cobbled-together tech from the Daleks and World War II.

He set it down and glanced up at the boys. "How about you fellas?"

Watson nodded at one of the images in the back of the stall: a graceful, coloured crystal sculpture of an insect-like humanoid, complete with antennae and iridescent butterfly wings. The Doctor had encountered the race a very long time ago, when Ian and Barbara were still travelling with him. "I have to admit, this one caught my eye."

The stallholder beamed. "Excellent taste, sir! That is the inaugural statue of Her Majesty Vrestin II of the Menoptera. A bargain at 20 credits."

The Doctor wordlessly dug a wallet out of his pockets and handed it to Watson with a smile. He then turned back to the collection. "Actually, I think I'll have this tree, myself." The tree in question was a richly coloured, stylised sculpture that looked rather Celtic... and Gallifreyan... And yet: "It reminds me of someone I once met, someone brave." Someone who burnt to death so he could save others from that fate. He shook himself out of his reverie and said, "What about you, Holmes?"

The Manhatian turned to the detective, who was still browsing. "Sir, if I may? Perhaps I can tempt you with..." He activated another projector, and a stunning spiral sunburst of crimson and gold tiles blossomed into life. "...this magnificent Silurian fire mosaic?"

Holmes's eyes widened, and he smiled. "Magnificent indeed..." He shook his head and gestured at a storm-lashed seascape. "...but I rather think this one."

The stallholder nodded. "The Venusian watercolour—a fine choice, sir."

The Doctor smiled; this was simple, touristy fun, and he was enjoying it. "How much will these be, then?"

"Eighty credits in all, noble sir... and as your friend was so taken with the fire mosaic, I'll include it for free." The Doctor grinned as the Manhatian waved away Holmes's attempt at protest. "I insist; it has been a pleasure doing business with you, gentlemen." He deactivated and packaged up the discs. "Is this your first visit to Polaris?"

"Ah, their first, my second, but it's been a while." The Doctor took the wallet back from his human colleague and gave the stallholder the money. "Thank you. You've got a lovely stall here."

"You're too kind, sir—" the hybrid sighed—"although I doubt you'll find me here for much longer. Business is about the same, but the rent for a stall space is twice what it was on my last trip."

The Doctor frowned in sympathy. "I'm sorry to hear that. Ah, why did the cost jump up?"

The hybrid shrugged. "Blessed if I know... but you must have noticed something yourself, sir—you wouldn't have had to pay half the cost of your parking permit last visit. _Somebody's_ making themselves a tidy profit here..." He smiled ruefully. "Too bad it isn't me. I have the family to support back home, and if I can't cover my costs, I'll have to ply my trade on another station."

The Doctor tilted his head in thought. "Interesting. I mean, I'm sorry for your troubles, it's just interesting that... mm." He shrugged, smiling sheepishly. "I like puzzles, me. Bad habit. Baaad, bad habit."

The stallholder looked concerned. "Well, take my advice, good sir," he murmured: "try to resist that tendency while you're here. Asking questions mightn't be illegal—yet!—but it's still not wise to attract the Judoon's attention if you don't have to."

Out of the corners of his eyes, the Time Lord saw his Companions' ears prick up. He himself winced. "Ohhh, not them again... I had a run-in with them—totally innocent, me, there was a mix-up, but... they're a bit too strict for my taste."

The stallholder snorted—in the midst of his curiosity, the Doctor couldn't help enjoying the full range of emotion displayed and felt by a sentient creature with Dalek DNA in him. "That's putting it mildly! They've had a field day throwing their weight around here—although I think they're getting rather frustrated at not being allowed to shoot anyone."

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "Well, at least they can't do that." He stopped and tilted his head, frowning in suddenly burning curiosity. "_Why_ can't they do that? Judoon have always had a free license to shoot."

"It's part of their contract with the station's Controller, or so I've heard." The expression on the Manhatian's face could only be one of distaste. "According to rumour from Above, he thinks having criminals executed is 'wasteful'..."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. "I would agree with that," he said slowly, "only I'm not so sure I would." _Wasteful_ was not a word you heard often from people disagreeing with the capital punishment. He leant in and murmured, "What happens to criminals who are caught?"

"That's just it," the Manhatian murmured back, obviously worried: "no one seems to know—and quite frankly, good sir, there are few here who'd care to attract attention by asking. If the Judoon take you to Administration... you don't come back."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed further—classic dictator scenario if ever there was one. "Now, that's not right. Just disappearing like that—that's not justice, that's something else." He sighed. "So much for a vacation..."

"Oh, no one ever just disappears, sir," said the stallholder, irony in his voice; "that'd be much too obvious. There's always _some_ 'legitimate' reason for their arrest."

"How convenient," Watson said grimly.

"These people who are arrested," said Holmes—"what of their families, their friends? Surely they don't all just meekly leave the station?"

The Manhatian shook his head sadly. "There's a large number of Drifters down Below with friends or family who got escorted Above. Even if they wanted to leave, a lot of them simply don't have the means. When the owner of a vessel is arrested, their craft is instantly impounded and auctioned off." His tone turned positively acidic. "Rule One of Polaris Seven: Read the fine print."

Watson tilted his head, frowning. "The fine print of what?"

The stallholder looked at him oddly. "The fine print of your visiting waiver, of course." Then his expression turned concerned. "Don't tell me you gentlemen didn't read yours before you signed it!"

"No," soothed the Doctor, "no, no, no, no, shh, it's okay." He leant in again and murmured, "Trust me. I'm the Doctor."

* * *

Holmes wasn't greatly surprised by the reaction to the Doctor's announcement: the Manhatian's eye widened, head jerking backwards in surprise, but looking decidedly sceptical. Then the hybrid's brow furrowed, looking hard at the Doctor again... and his jaw dropped. "By the Maker..." he murmured reverently.

The Doctor nodded at his Companions. "And these are the men who were with me when your people were reborn: Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. If something underhanded is going on, you can be sure we'll get to the bottom of it."

The stallholder bowed deeply, expression awed. "Then if there is anything you wish of me, gentlemen, you have only to name it. What you did for our ancestors will never be forgotten."

Holmes smothered a sigh. The detective could appreciate the gratitude, but he and Watson achieving legendary status with their own race – _and_ in their own lifetime! – was already troublesome enough.

The Manhatian frowned suddenly. "But... forgive my impertinence, Doctor – where is the Lady Katherine?"

The Doctor froze for a moment. "She has her own path to follow," he said softly.

The stallholder meekly nodded, trying not to look disappointed and failing.

"Well, since we're performing introductions," Watson smiled, "might we ask your name, sir?"

The hybrid returned the smile broadly. "You honour me, Healer. My name is Tarm."

The Doctor beamed. "Tarm. Lovely to meet you, Tarm." He leant forward again, resting his hands on the counter, careful of the projectors. "And I'd like nothing more than to make it so you won't have to leave this station – history in the making here on all the Polaris stations. Any other tips you can give us?"

Tarm looked thoughtful. "Well... there is a word that has been starting to echo Below: Jeruuk. Who or what that might be, I don't know... but on this station, anything remaining in the rumour currents for more than a cycle is worth being wary of." His expression turned serious. "And if you do find yourselves Below, sirs, for the Maker's sake, be careful! There are a lot of desperate people down there now, with very little left to lose."

Holmes smirked mirthlessly – this station was feeling more like home every minute...

* * *

**Authors' note: **

To those wondering what happened to '42'... this is it! Well, sort of... We decided not to revisit the original episode for several reasons, not least of which was that the action consisted mainly of running around the 'Pentallian' and dodging possessed crew members. Bit difficult to write that in prose without sounding extremely repetitive, given the previous episode – plus Holmes and Watson hadn't really had the chance yet to mingle with any friendly alien races, or even see much of the universe besides New Earth and the Manhatians' new planet.

As to why we put this episode _after_ their encounter with the Family and Beth... well, you'll just have to stay tuned!


	2. Mind Over Murder

**==Chapter Two: Mind Over Murder==**

"_Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them."  
_― Alice Sebold

The Doctor placed the discs inside his pocket, and they said their farewells to Tarm. The Time Lord hoped that they'd be able to see the hybrid one more time before they left—meeting him had been nothing short of wonderful.

They continued to meander through the bazaar, which was quite the maze, really, of sights and sounds. The Doctor wished that they could be simple tourists as he'd intended, because this was a brilliant place to tour just for the fun of it. As they neared the edge of the bazaar, the Doctor stopped and frowned. "Oi, do you hear that? Sounds like a child crying. Little one."

They headed in the direction of the sound and turned the corner of a vacant stall to face a stack of crates. The sobbing sound was coming from behind it. The Doctor rounded the stack to find a girl with faintly yellow-green skin, elaborately coiffed hair of the same colours, a dome-shaped horn covered in nodules at the top of her head, and long yellow robes with a tall lace collar. An Argolin. A ten-year-old-ish Argolin girl, huddled on the floor and sobbing quietly.

"Oh, hello," the Doctor murmured. He bent down slowly. "Hey, sweetheart... what's wrong? What happened?"

The girl lifted her head, staring wide-eyed at the Doctor, and opened her mouth to speak, her gaze drifting towards the Companions and focusing on Holmes... Her eyes went wide with terror, and she shrunk back, screaming.

The Time Lord started, wide-eyed himself, and leant forward. "Shh, shh, honey! Sweetheart, relax, please! It's okay—you're okay!"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a pale, visibly-shaken Holmes step back. The girl hadn't started screaming until she'd looked straight at him; the Doctor was certain of it. And Watson looked about as taken aback as his friend.

"Hey, you!" The three men turned to see a female Raxacoricofallapatorian swiftly advancing, claws extended... A handful of other aliens, mostly female, followed on her heels, appearing distinctly concerned and angry. "What are you doing?! Leave that poor child alone!"

The Doctor jumped to his feet. "I heard crying—I wanted to help!"

The girl had stopped screaming but she was crying again, still pressed back against the crates and hugging herself. Full-blown terror. The Time Lord's gut churned: that sort of expression was always the messenger of just one thing...

The Rax managed to convey deep suspicion in her huge black eyes. She crouched in front of the girl, claws retracting; the Doctor stepped back. "Child?" she said gently.

The girl whimpered, not looking back up.

"It's all right, child," the Rax said in that same soft, soothing tone, "no one will hurt you. Don't be afraid..." The girl began to calm. "We heard your cries, little one, we came to help." The Rax lowered her huge head, placing a hand to her chest. "My name is Frith Keb-Rax Javria-Thel Hostrozeen; what's yours?"

"Noya," the girl said in a small voice. She looked up then, eyes round. "D-don't... let him... get me... _please_..."

The other aliens murmured angrily, moving between Noya and the travelers. Hooo boy, this was just getting worse and worse... Frith gave the three friends a scathing look of contempt, though most of her venom seemed to be directed at poor Holmes. She nodded to one of the other aliens, a Chelonian. "Call them."

Oh, perfect. Judoon. The Doctor's shoulders slumped. Just what they'd been hoping to _avoid_.

Frith turned back to Noya. "You are safe with us, Noya," she said, gently but firmly; "we will not let the human harm you, I promise." She held out a huge green hand. "Come now, come to Frith."

Protesting innocence at this point would be useless... although he didn't see how they could manage it with the Judoon, either.

Noya looked at the hand, then up at Frith's eyes, and pushed herself up off the floor, placing her tiny hand onto one of the Rax's fingers.

Frith nodded approvingly. "Brave child." She patted the girl's hand. "What happened, Noya? Have you lost your mother?"

Noya's face crumpled. "She's dead!" She pointed at Holmes. "He killed her!"

"That's not true!" the Doctor cried, pale, eyes wide. "We just got here!"

Noya was crying again. "He did! I saw it! He killed her with a knife!"

Frith growled, rose, and turned to Holmes, talons extending.

Watson stepped in front of Holmes, both wide-eyed. "I warn you, madam," he said in a steely voice: "we wish none of you harm, but take one step nearer, and it will not end well. There has been a terrible mistake—our friend is innocent!"

"Your _friend_ is about to decorate the walls, human! Move aside or join him!"

The Doctor stepped up to Watson's side, glaring defiantly at the Rax. He wasn't sure how well he'd do against the most primal use of a Rax's hands, but he'd be damned if he stood by and did nothing at all.

"_Stop."_ The user of the telepathic voice appeared from around the corner and floated forward—a tall blue, glowing, translucent humanoid with extremely blunted features and long, slender tentacles flowing from her face and back. An Arcateenian. _"Th__is will resolve nothing. Frith... you know the laws of this station as well as anyone—would you deprive your hatchlings of _their_ mother, also?"_

Frith hissed... but after a couple of seconds, stepped back. "As if I would soil my claws with this _katorg's_ innards."

That was low, and this was ludicrous. How on earth could Holmes be mistaken for a murderer?

"_The Judoon are approaching, we have little time."_ The telepath drifted over to Noya. _"__Noya, I am Mileen. You believe this human killed your mother?"_

Noya bit her lip, whimpered, and nodded.

"_I am sorry to ask this of you, Noya, but we wish to be certain."_ Mileen lifted the pendant that hung from her neck and showed it to the girl. _"Will you help us?"_

Noya gazed at the pendant, then at Mileen, clearly assessing things. She nodded slowly and touched the device.

Mileen turned to Holmes, expression stern. _"And you, human?"_

Holmes swallowed but nodded firmly—poor, brave boy. "Very well." He was definitely avoiding looking at Noya at all.

Watson frowned, clearly uneasy. "Holmes..."

Holmes put a hand on his arm. "I'll be fine, Watson." He smiled wryly, his tone lightening. "Better this than Administration..."

Watson exhaled through his nose, obviously unconvinced.

"_If your friend is innocent, Healer, he need not fear."_ Mileen let the pendant fall back into place and held both hands up, palms outward, inviting contact. _"Close your eyes, Noya... take us back with you... show us what you saw..."_

Noya placed her palms against Mileen's and closed her eyes. Images flickered to life in the air above Mileen's head, projected by the pendant, blurred and disjointed, the memories of a child who had not been trained yet to focus her mind...

* * *

"_What's wrong, Mama? Is it the Assembly?"_

"_Nothing escapes you, does it, sweetling? The senators were greatly divided over this mission; we only obtained approval by one vote."_

"_But we won, didn't we? Don't worry, Mama, I'm sure the Foamasi are just as tired of fighting as we are."_

"_I hope so, Noya..."_

o0o

"_No, it's not fair!"_

"_I'm sorry, Noya, but the Foamasi envoy has insisted on our meeting alone. I'll make it up to you, I promise."_

"_You already promised – and you always say diplomats have to make extra sure they keep their word."_

"_I don't remember saying it quite like that..."_

"_**Please?**__"_

"_Next time, sweetling. Noya, these negotiations are the best hope we have for a ceasefire – we may even be able to re-establish trade – but the Foamasi will never trust us if we begin by disrespecting their wishes. Do you understand?"_

"_...yes..."_

o0o

"_Level One, observation dome."_

"_**Mama!**__"_

"_...Noya... __**run**__..."_

* * *

Holmes' jaw and fists remained clenched well after the last images of Noya's panicked flight through a maze of ventilation ducts had flickered and vanished. He would have looked away long before now, but for the sake of the poor, motherless child, who was now crying quietly in Frith's arms.

The detective shivered – he couldn't blame Noya or any of the other witnesses for believing him guilty. Whoever had killed the ambassador had looked exactly like himself, chillingly so: features, build, clothing, right down to the last detail. Had he not been with his Companions every moment since they'd arrived, he might even have considered the possibility that he _was _the murderer! Especially since... his blood froze. The assassination had taken place in the observation dome, right where the TARDIS had landed earlier – Fate clearly possessed a most twisted sense of humour.

Mercifully, Noya's memory of the dome had shown nothing of the ship, but even so... And it was Holmes' turn to be 'questioned' now – if he left anything out of his own recent memories, the others could easily regard such an evasion as an automatic admission of guilt. All the same, he had to make the attempt. The detective's mind raced as he stepped forward to place his hands against Mileen's; surely he and his Companions riding the lift together would be an acceptable starting point, the murderer had apparently been working alone...

o0o

"_Computer, what is the main communal area on this station?"_

"_The primary centre of social activity is the Level Twelve marketplace."_

"_Level Twelve, then."_

"_Lift descending."_

_But there is far more to this memory, human… _Mileen's voice echoed in Holmes' mind._ Where were you earlier?_

_...Madam, please... I cannot... _What was she doing to him, he couldn't move, could hardly breathe...

_Show me..._

_...please, no more... _His head was ringing like an anvil, every thought a hammer blow...

_Show me!_

_No, let me be, get __**out**__...!_

o0o

Holmes gasped as the mental link was abruptly severed, returning him to the present with a jolt – and just as much of a shock was the sight of Mileen drifting backwards away from him, clutching _her_ head, blunt features distorted with pain. What the devil...?!

"...Watson..." But before the shaken detective could say another word, Frith's long, taloned fingers had closed around his throat.

* * *

**Author's note from Sky:** ...weeeell, Holmes had to be directly in danger sooner or later! Props to Ria for the truly chilling, gut-wrenching telepathy sequence.

Don't worry—of course, it only gets worse!

**Author's note from Ria:** And no, we didn't deliberately set out to echo 'The Reichenbach Fall' with Noya screaming at the sight of Holmes – but when we finally spotted the parallel, it seemed a waste not to leave it in. *hugs them both*


	3. The Spider's Web

**==Chapter 3: The Spider's Web==**

_Albert grunted. "Do you know what happens to lads who ask too many questions?"  
Mort thought for a moment. "No," he said eventually, "what?"  
There was silence.  
Then Albert straightened up and said, "Damned if I know. Probably they get answers, and serve 'em right."  
_― Terry Pratchett, Mort

The Doctor started forward as Holmes and Mileen forcefully separated from the mental link. Mileen went down on one knee, holding her head and gasping in pain. Holmes blinked dazedly, looking uncertain and horrified—whatever just happened, it had not been at all good... "Watson..." the detective murmured.

Watson started forward, as well —

— only for both Doctors to halt as Frith closed her huge hand around Holmes's neck, talons extended just enough to dig warningly into his skin. "Just try it, humans!" she hissed. "Give me a reason!"

Watson's eyes burned helplessly in anger.

"_Frith, no,"_ Mileen urged.

The Doctor could hear heavy footsteps marching towards them, and his hearts fell.

Mileen rose unsteadily to float off the floor, a Malmooth and a Crespallion moving to flank her protectively. She looked at Holmes in sorrow and pity. _"I__ am sorry, Seeker, truly... but you have brought this upon yourself. I shall sing for the memory of the man you once were..."_

"Whatever just happened _cannot_ be proof of his guilt," the Doctor gritted out, "because he has none." If Mileen had tried to go back too far in Holmes's memories, that _would_ look damning...

"My lady," Watson pleaded, "whatever that poor child thinks she saw, Holmes would _never_ harm another living soul in such a fashion. _Please_— you can't simply stand back and allow an innocent man to be punished for murder!"

Mileen shook her head helplessly. _"I have done all that I can for your friend, Healer. His fate is not mine to decide..."_

The Judoon appeared around the corner and marched to a halt, the head officer looking over the odd assembly. "We are here for the human transgressor."

Frith nodded scornfully at Holmes, still holding him by the throat. "You're welcome to him!" She dropped him to the floor and turned away to return to Noya.

Two Judoon raised Holmes by the arms and held him. "Human," said the CO, "You are under arrest for the charge of murder."

The Doctor hurried forward, pulse pounding. "Wait a minute, hold on! Will he stand trial?"

"No. He will be sentenced."

The Doctor's eyes blazed. "But he hasn't been proven guilty!"

Holmes shook his head. "Irrelevant, Doctor," he said wearily.

Watson stepped up to his side. "Holmes, if you think we're just going to let this happen...!"

"You have no choice, Watson!" Holmes murmured urgently. "If any of us resist, then the Judoon will simply arrest you two as well for obstruction."

Watson snorted quietly. "Obstruction of what?!"

Holmes gave him a pointed look. "This assassination was well-planned — whoever is responsible is certainly not going to leave any loose threads lying around."

Watson's eyes widen, understanding mere seconds after the Doctor did — the Time Lord felt slow... Whoever was responsible had ties with the authorities. "Noya! You think they'll target her next?"

Holmes smiled faintly, gazing at the group of angry aliens surrounding the little girl. "Somehow, I think the child will be well protected." He sobered. "Watson, I don't know why they chose to use me as a scapegoat... but it is up to you and the Doctor now to discover the truth. I suspect I shall be somewhat —" he smirked grimly — "inconvenienced."

The station controller didn't want criminals dead, but no one ever heard from them again... The Doctor shivered and said tersely, "Believe me, it won't take us long." He smiled faintly for Sherlock's benefit. "Keep your chin up." He had to force himself to step back. "We'll see you soon."

Holmes nodded, smiling bravely past the fear creeping into his eyes as he turned to Watson. "You know my methods, Watson," he said lightly: "do me proud."

Watson met his gaze squarely, determined. "Count on it."

Holmes turned to the Judoon officer. "Shall we, gentlemen?" he said casually. "I can't imagine your employer likes to be kept waiting."

The Doctor stood frozen, his hearts in his throat, and watched the Judoon take Sherlock away, the detective not looking back... This was all wrong! How could everything go so wrong so quickly?! They'd only just gotten here... and now... now Sherlock Holmes... there was a chance they would never _see_ him again. The Time Lord turned to Watson, chest aching sharply, a silent apology in his eyes as he nodded Watson over a little distance from the women surrounding Noya. No time to spare, because who knew what would happen to Holmes once he reached the heart of the station?

"Ideally," the Doctor whispered, "I would like to get Noya into the TARDIS until we can find the murderer..."

Watson sighed—he didn't look devastated, but he seemed to have aged in the last minute or so... "Doctor... take a good look at what you're up against. How much chance do you imagine either of us stand against a pack of angry females?" He smiled wryly. "I believe Holmes is correct in this case: Noya is in good hands."

The Doctor exhaled forcefully and nodded. "Well, then... I guess we need to start with the scene of the crime. Following that... get into the station's databanks and find out if there are any other Argolins or Foamasi aboard." The Doctor did not normally allow him to indulge himself in vengeful sentiments —that was a bit too _Master_ for him — but when he found out who had done this (and he would), there would be hell to pay...

* * *

"Level Two, Administration."

Holmes and his escorts stepped out of the lift into an enormous cavern of a room. The lighting was dim and an unnerving shade of blood red – he could barely see the far wall in the gloom. A circular desk dominated the centre of the space; and seated at its hub, back to the lift, was a grossly obese individual, easily twice the size of Mycroft.

The figure swivelled his hoverchair around as the group approached, revealing himself to be another of the blue-skinned, cat-pupilled humanoids – except that the female in Frith's pack of alien Amazons had been positively dainty compared to this repulsive slug... Holmes' lips twitched in spite of his disgust, realising suddenly whom the Controller put him in mind of: Jabba the Hutt's throwback cousin...

"Oh, you brought him in quickly, well done." The Controller's leering smile made Holmes' flesh crawl; the bureaucrat was looking him over with the same naked hunger in his eyes as the plasmavore. Then, as if to reinforce the comparison, two identical figures emerged from the shadows. "My Slabs will take it from here, thank you."

The detective stared in revolted fascination – these Slabs were dressed in plain jumpsuits, with no effort made to conceal their faces... or rather, _lack_ thereof – where a face ought to be was nothing but a smooth expanse of shiny black leather. The Doctor clearly hadn't been joking...

"The child must be taken care of." The Judoon officer stepped back to allow the Slabs to take hold of Holmes' upper arms, who didn't bother to resist. He knew from experience how strong a grip these things had; and even if he did manage to break free and escape, what would be the point? A stationwide manhunt would only hinder the two Doctors' efforts to find the real assassin.

"She will be, she will be," the Controller replied smoothly. "I'm arranging for her to be returned to her extended family on Argolis. That will be all." His smile grew wider still as the Judoon tramped back the way they'd come, nodding to Holmes as the Slabs brought him closer. "Welcome to the heart of Polaris Seven."

Holmes fought to control his rising panic when the Judoon had vanished back into the lift – he hadn't felt this vulnerable even in the catacombs, with the plasmavore staring at his neck... "You're too kind, sir," he managed to smile pleasantly, trying not to wrinkle his nose at the reek of stale sweat assaulting his nostrils. "To what do I truly owe the honour of this invitation?"

The Controller leant back in his chair and pressed his flabby hands together. "Quite simply, you were a convenient face to use, nothing more. That much is really nothing personal, you understand – a simple trick of fate. However..." His tone turned musing. "I must say, the glimpse I got of your psyche was absolutely fascinating. I'm afraid I would have had to find a way to bring you in for that reason alone, once I'd discovered it."

Holmes' eyes narrowed as the Controller's movement allowed the detective a glimpse of a familiar pendant hanging from the alien's neck, almost lost among the folds of his robes. "Mileen... she's in your employ."

"And _such_ a good girl, too," the Controller purred. "Through her species' own methods of communication, I can _taste_ any mind on this station. Yours has quite the archaic flavour... but so very _brilliant_. Most minds are not so sharp, more's the pity."

Holmes hadn't quite been able to disguise the flicker of revulsion that crossed his face. "A mental epicure..."

"Oh, I prefer... connoisseur. And you, I think, are rather the amateur detective type." The bureaucrat clapped his hands together in glee. "So, my detective! Do you know what comes next?"

"I imagine you are eager to enlighten me, sir." Playing the deduction game might have been an effective way to stall for time, but Holmes just couldn't bring himself to give this smug, overfed parasite any more satisfaction than he could help.

"Ah, so polite! Not a common occurrence, by any means." The Controller leant forward again, twisting a dial on the desk... and the air was abruptly flooded with the sound of panicked voices – hundreds upon hundreds, male and female, young and old – every one of them pleading for help, to be let out...

Holmes felt his blood turn to water at the ghastly clamour, stunned speechless for a long moment. Finally, he managed to recover enough to draw himself back up, as much as he was able in his captors' hold, giving the Controller a look of deepest contempt, horror swiftly being burned away by a cold fury.

"They're not dead." The Controller had to raise his voice to be heard, eyes dancing with delight at the reaction of his newest acquisition. "They're simply, well, in limbo, if you will. The body is placed in stasis, and the mind is uploaded to the database."

"And, of course," Holmes responded icily, "it never crossed your mind that death might have been kinder! How long?"

The Controller raised his eyebrows in a shrug, lowering the noise level to a background murmur that was no less chilling. "Well, the oldest ones have been here... two years, I believe? That was before I could have quite the set-up that I do now."

"Hence the exorbitant station fees – to fund the upgrades for housing your... collection." The detective fervently hoped he sounded a lot calmer than he felt. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the light, he could see all too clearly the thousands of stasis units lining the chamber walls from floor to ceiling.

"Mm." The Controller steeples his fingers. "To which you will make a very fine addition, indeed. Slabs." Holmes stiffened as he received a sudden jab to his upper left arm – one of the Slabs had extended a hypodermic needle from its fingertip. "It's a mild anaesthetic," the Controller hastened to reassure him. "You'll barely feel a thing when we upload you."

"How thoughtful of you." Holmes was borne across the room to an empty pod, the Controller gliding along behind in his chair. "One point does greatly intrigue me, however."

"Yes?"

The capsule hissed open and the Slabs swiftly strapped Holmes into it, his body already too heavy to let him put up any kind of a struggle. At least his mind was still clear, for the moment...

"You were obviously paid to look the other way when the ambassador was assassinated; but how does such a diplomatic incident benefit a profiteering leech like yourself in the long term?"

"Oh, well." The Controller waved a careless hand as the Slabs started attaching wires to Holmes' temples. "Even we profiteering leeches show governments the respect they demand, and the Argolin government was quite keen to have their peace-loving diplomat out of the way."

Holmes' jaw tightened, burning with anger despite the spreading chill of the sedative. "And the child?" he managed to ask, his entire head now feeling as if it were filled with lead.

"A loose end that will be tied up soon enough, as no doubt you already deduced." The capsule hummed as it quickly powered up, and a second syringe on a robotic arm extended towards the veins in Holmes' exposed forearm.

Unable to respond at all now, the detective let his eyes fall shut and focused every available scrap of mental energy onto one word: _Norbury_. A slim chance, perhaps, but surely the urgency of the thought meant the Doctor's psychic paper would have a greater chance of receiving it...

He was vaguely aware of the Controller's voice: "...been lovely meeting you – I look forward to many years together..." then Holmes' eyes snapped open again in panic, his last thought a wordless cry of terror as his mind began to dissolve, melting away into the gathering dark...

* * *

**Author's note from Ria:** Perhaps we should explain why we're being so dastardly to poor Holmes in this episode! Well, as thehybridmikaelson so brilliantly pointed out in their last review (*wild applause*), Watson and the Doctor had already had their turns at being rescued in 'Gridson' and 'Child of Time', so this time it was Holmes's turn. And since we couldn't supply the requisite level of horror by having the living sun possess Holmes – or anyone else – we had to use our imaginations! And we really do mean that, we didn't deliberately set out to plagiarise from 'The Bells of St. John', honest!

Let's face it: given the length of time that _Doctor Who_ has been around (over 700 episodes!), you can't watch _any_ episode without seeing at least a dozen elements that have been used in another one. Honestly, I think that's one of the reasons why the show has been around so long – the writers knew how _not_ to fix something that wasn't broken. I just wish the same could be said for the latest version of the Master...


End file.
